| writings: the diaries of otto dix |
| Lovis Corinth is dead. He had a stroke. This man was a great painter. And like many great painters he had to die for this fact to become apparent. What will happen now I can predict with perfect confidence. The dealers will swoop down upon the widow like maggots invading a corpse. They will offer the woman a lump sum to scoop up the inventory. She will agree to this because she needs the money.Then a campaign will begin to secure the artists reputation and inflate the price of the work. A show will be mounted and an expensive catalogue produced. Over a period of several years the rest of the inventory will be sold off a few paintings at a time at vastly inflated prices. One day Corinths widow will read that a single painting--or maybe print--has been sold for more money than she was paid for the entire collection. This is how it works. At the art supply store. This is a new store Meidner told me about. I enjoy buying art supplies. I can kill an hour shopping for pencil lead refills. There is a famous story about Rembrandt. Rembrandt had an early success and was still in his 20's when he established himself as a portrait painter. The commissions rolled in. He was making money. He was making it and spending it. There is an expression: monkey with a checkbook. He bought a big house and hired servants to go with and there were clothes and jewelry and swords and leather boots and so forth and he generally lived it up. Then something happened. He didnt know these things go in cycles. He thought the way things were they would be always. The commissions began to dry up. He got stiffed on a few portraits--regarding artistic interpretation--and he acquired a reputation as a prima donna type. Plus there was always Franz Hals. This went on for a few years. He had his ups and downs. Then his wife died. This was a major blow. He continued to struggle financially. He filed for bankruptcy. He lost the house. He never recovered from this. He struggled financially the rest of his life. But there was some consolation here. He had all this free time. There was no more shopping or the supervising of building contractors or problems with the help. He could paint, paint, paint. And this he did. The impact on his style was enormous. It resulted in the gorgeous paintings of his later years. He died painting up a storm at age 63. His last words were: "I was just getting the hang of it!". But the story is this: Out for a stroll one day he bumped into a friend and put the arm on him for a few guilders. And it was true: he didnt have a sou. He hadnt eaten. He was also down to his last tube of cadmium red light. So the problem was this: what to do--food or art supplies? Naturally he goes for the art supplies. I buy some paint, vine charcoal, drawing ink and treat myself to a fine brush--a leFranc/bouregeois #6 red sable long hair round. The French are scum. But they make good brushes. With this brush I will paint a masterpiece! I talk to the owner. We chat about this and that. He asks about my work. I tell him. I introduce myself. He says: Otto Dix! He has heard of me--thru a student. This is flattering. He gives me a 20% discount. Excellent! In the studio. I have an idea for an etching. The title is: Sex Murder With Copulating Dogs. I got the idea from a story in the paper. We are seeing more and more of these stories. Its nothing but murder, rape, suicide. People are desperate. The country is in terrible shape. The inflation is horrendous. People who have worked like dogs all their lives to save a few hundred thousand marks have been wiped out. They could wipe their ass with this money and get more value. Everyone screams about the French. The French have something to do with it. They want their pound of flesh. But it isnt the French. Its the Germans. Its these scumbag politicians. There was a feeling before the war--among some of the artists--that perhaps the war was a good thing. You had in the country a hopelessly decadent and corrupt ruling class that combined itself with a certain amount of cultural garbage that was burying us. The idea was that the war would perhaps serve as a purgative to correct these abuses and replace them with some less shabby thinking and the people to go with it. That was the idea. Naturally this failed to occur. The war was fought and when it ended millions had been slaughtered and the scumbag politicians--and their unkillable bullshit speeches--were still with us. So the drawing is this: there is a bed with a womans body hacked to pieces. The blood is substantial. Its on the bed, the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Its blood, blood, blood. Next to the bed are two humping dogs. One mutt mounts the other who seems mildly startled by this encounter. It is the two mutts mundanely humping in the middle of all this carnage that is quite funny--in my opinion. The dogs are my idea. I love this idea! |
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| In the studio. I have a visitor. Its Mother Ey. She is coming to look at my work. This is a big moment. She wants to give me a show. And I want a show. I dont do this work because I enjoy it. I do enjoy it. I also need to live. I need to eat and pay rent and buy art supplies and clothes and minor luxuries such as phonograph records and enjoy an occasional visit to the whore house. I must sell my work. Ive had many shows. I had my first show at 17. At 17 you are still a child. You know nothing. You are naive. You dont understand that art is a business. The purpose of a show is to sell work. Its nice to have all these people oohing and ahhing over your work. But it is a long way from the oohing and ahhing to writing out a check. Mother Ey arrives. I enjoy the company of this woman. She is fun. She could find a way to entertain herself standing in line at the DMV waiting to apply for plates. Like some fat women she dresses in a way designed to call maximum attention to herself. She is dressed to kill in one of her patented full length silk dresses of brilliant chroma--today a dioaxine purple. There is enough material in this dress to sail a boat. There is jewelry to go with--rings, earrings, bracelets, two watches, neckwear, tiara, ect. I should paint this woman. There is a suggestion of the grotesque and a theatrical quality that makes her a perfect subject for me. We chat and I show her the work which I have displayed along the walls of the studio. I have paintings, drawings, etchings. She inspects the work. She circles the studio. She circles once, then twice. Here is the etching: Sex Murder With Copulating Dogs. She laughs. She says: some people might think that with this one you’ve gone too far. Now she gives me a hug. Being hugged by this woman is like being run over by a truck. She says: youre a genius! Today I went shopping. I need clothes for the show. I always need clothes. I am only happy when I am wearing a fine suit. I visit Hammersteins. I love this store. When I make my fortune my first priority will be to open an account here. In some things you must have the best. For me it is clothes. I look good in clothes. I am a perfect medium. I can buy off the rack and the threads look like a custom fit. I have been told I should try modeling. I am in shirts. Where are they getting these prices? People are boiling shoe leather for soup and a shirt is 2500 marks. I look at some ties. I love ties. You can get by with a mediocre shirt but the tie must be a winner. One of these days I am going to design some ties for myself. Over to shoes. Shoes are my vice. Some people drink, some people take drugs, some people collect pot holders. I buy shoes. Where does this dandyism come from? My father worked in a foundry. My mother was the artist. She always made sure we were properly dressed. There is a new shipment in from Italy-- Ferragamos. The English are good with titles, the French print beautiful money--and the Italians make shoes. Ferragamo is a genuis. The best show I saw last year was an exhibit devoted to Ferragamo shoe designs for women. There were some custom pieces he had been commissioned to do for film work that were were of virtuoso caliber. They were beautiful and beautifully made and they were fun. It confirms the observation that the thing we choose to do in this life is not the point; the point is the energy we pour into this thing. Here was a man who found his niche: womens shoes. He recognized the truth of this and accepted it and embraced the work with furious pleasure. And the results speak for themselves. The shoes are amazing and he is becoming rich. I examine a pair of high tops that lace up by finishing off with a triple row of brass hooks and combine with a buckle and strap feature to complete the look. Even the laces are great. I fondle the leather. The leather is fabulous. What is the price of these lovelies? 7500 marks. Jesus Christ! I try on. Nice. They look and feel great. I have a pair of knickers these shoes would accesorize perfectly. I must have these shoes! I buy some shirts, ties and a jacket--also some socks. The socks are black silk with little red and green arrows--very nice! I pass on the shoes--for now. Last nite I went dancing. This is a new club I am visiting for the first time. They have a good band. The drummer is an American--a negro. This man is an amazing musician. If I was not a painter I would be a musician--and I would be a drummer. I love the energy of this instrument. The heart of a band is the rhythm section and what drives the rhythm section is the drummer. He thumps away on these tubs and from time to time flicks a stick high in the air and catches it behind his back while continuing to drum without missing a beat. Its fabulous. I must do a painting of this. I love night clubs. In war you kill. In night clubs you chase pussy. Every day 3 night clubs open. People have no money but they are determined to enjoy themselves. This club features a new angle--telephones. At each table is a telephone you can use to call the other tables. The idea is this: you sit at a table and inspect the action. You see a tasty creature. You dial her table. She picks up. You identify yourself--the good looking stud in the snappy suit at table 12--also a fabulous dancer. Would she like to verify this? She agrees. You dance. You dance another. You have a drink. Etc, etc. At some point you leave together and return to her apt and bang. Things didnt work out quite this way. I picked up this woman-a redhead. We danced and drank and danced and drank and at some point wound up sitting in her car pawing each other. I had a brutal hardon. We pawed each other. But she wouldnt fuck. She wouldnt fuck but she would suck. I had my cock out and down upon it she went and I started to come and she anticipated this and withdrew her mouth and I came over her, my new suit and the car. Its like painting. You have your good and bad days. Yesterday I had my show It was a good draw. It was a full house. There was a lively buzz. Mother Ey knows her stuff. She was born to hustle art. The secret to a successful show is free liquor and young pussy. There was plenty of both. It was me, Felixmuller, Meidner and George Grosz. I am in good company with these men. Grosz is becoming well known thru his political cartoon work. He should stick to painting. As a draftsman I find his style somewhat anemic and unsatisfying. Possibly this is explained by the subject at hand: the social, moral and economic collapse of Germany. But I like the paintings. There is a portrait of Max Hermann-Neisse--the art critic. It’s a masterpiece. This is how you get good reviews. Hermann-Neisse is here. This is a species—the art critc—I normally despise But Hermann-Neisse is the exception. We all like this man. He is a human being. Perhaps it is his hunch. It hasnt prevented him from acquiring a very good looking wife. F is showing some portraits and woodcuts. There is a small woodcut of a child taking his first steps being guided by his mother that is a beautiful piece. Also included is the painting of yours truly--Otto Dix Paints. This is my first look at the finished piece. I love this painting. It is pure energy. He has captured something of the manic and obsessive state into which I enter while painting. I am wielding the mahl stick like a club attempting to thrash the painting into submission. Meidner showed some portraits and paintings of the city. What is it about meidner? No one paints like this man. These things look like they were painted in 9 minutes. We managed to clean him up and get him some decent clothes to wear. But he is still Meidner. He spent the evening in a state of relentless panic--occasionally cornered by this or that chippie attacking him with mindless adoration. He didnt know whether to wet his pants or climb a tree. Then there was yours truly. There were some yeas and nays. The nays included Card Game With War Cripples. Several people approached me with the suggestion I eliminate this subject from my repetoire. The war is over, we want to forget all that business, etc, etc. I assured them these were my last efforts in this vein. From now on I intend to devote myself entirely to drawing whores. What about Sex Murder With Copulating Dogs? Here the opinion was unanimous: I am a sick human being. A man named Hans Koch introduced himself. With him was his wife--an attractive woman. There is something very satisfying about her. She has marvelous breasts. Koch is a physician--a urologist. He also collects art. He likes my work. He invites me to paint him. It doesnt hurt to know a good urologist. |
the art historian
dr paul schmidt
by otto dix
dr paul schmidt
by otto dix
at the nightclub
by otto dix
by otto dix
portrait of Max
Hermann-Neisse
by geroge grosz
Hermann-Neisse
by geroge grosz
otto dix paints
by conrad felixmuller
by conrad felixmuller
| installment five: dix has a show |
myself and the city
by ludwig meidner
by ludwig meidner
sex murder with copulating dogs
by otto dix
by otto dix
johanna ey
by otto dix
by otto dix
